Boogeyman Bravo
by That F.I.G
Summary: We do not beg for recognition, nor do we seek redemption. We are Ejército de los Muertos, the Army of the Dead.     Original story, set in the Modern Warfare universe. Please review and give feedback.


_November 16th, 2018,_

_**De-classification** of Special Forces Unit in progress._

"With Task Force 141 reserved tasked only for dedicated anti-terrorists ops on a global scale, someone had to step in to fill in their shoes back in The Stan (Afghanistan)." The grizzly face of the veteran leaned closer over the table, tipping the end of his cigarette into the ashtray. The reporter didn't think he looked old, or no older than himself at least, and he knew better than to ask for sensitive details like age and name when it came to military politics. "So TF141 was pulled out, and you where assigned to their replacement. No pressure then." He asked, glancing down at the highlighted notes on his notepad. One word more heavily written than the others and underlined several times leaped up at him; HORIZON. The veteran fixed his cigarette between his lips again and took another long extended drag, relishing the fill of nicotine before exhaling a thick cloud burned tobacco. The reporter fixed his thoughts, he had met the demanded price so surely this man was entitled to answer some of the more tasty questions. "Tell me about HORIZON, what is it?" The lines on the veteran's face creased, and the reporter took that as a sign of surprise. "HORIZON?" He coughed, wiping saliva from his lips before aiming a finger at him. "How the fuck do you know about him?" The reporter took his time to smile, enjoying the leverage. "Contacts," he answered. "That and I know my way through a corporate filing cabinet." The veteran laughed at that.

"So, you want to know about HORIZON?" he said. "I'll let you know right now, it ain't pretty and people kill to keep it off yer' headlines."

The reporter nodded, understanding. "The ones they don't want you to know are usually the ones that will earn your bonus."

The veteran nodded, stabbing out the kindling glow of his cigarette in the ashtray before leaning close to recite his tale.

* * *

_February 29th 2012,_

_Subject **Cipher** was dispatched to investigate possible weapons smuggling operations across the **Pakistan border**, the smuggling ring was understood to be property of **HVT Farrid Al Zarj**._

_Designate; **Boogeyman**  
_

**T**he cold months along the Afghanistan border towards Pakistan did wonders for his fear of heights. Entire days were spent tracking trails up the side of cliffs and through ravines but now it was all coming to a head, and Cipher was ever so happy with the result. High Value Target HVT Farrid Al Zarj was in sight, enjoying some Farsi jargon waffle with a few of his subordinates perched on crates of ammunition. A convoy was coming and when the sun rose in two hours this base would be gone and any trace of Farrid would vanish with it. Navy SEALs where getting sick of the Hide-and-Seek missions about the region, so this HVT was palmed off to Boogeyman Bravo. Better to send in the freaks with the skull balaclavas than waste registered personnel, if they die then nobody home would need to know.

Farrid was on the move, walking through the camp and issuing orders. That was his signal. Cipher got up into a crouch and moved as quietly and as quickly as he could, keeping his head down below line of sight. There was bound to be at least one sniper out there in the dark, but Cipher would deal with them in due time. Reaching into his Bergen, Cipher pulled out an electronic device no bigger than a small cereal box and in the same sort of design as an oversized pair of binoculars; it was a SOFLAM (SOF Laser Marker).

Ordinarily these gizmos where reserved for official SEAL special operations only, but FOB Hampshire saw it best to 'lose' one unit in its most recent delivery. SOFLAM was simple to use, much like binoculars you got the lens over your target and then just hit the button. Like binoculars the SOFLAM would take a distance reading, but it would also signal UAV Hercules - some hundreds of miles above him - to engage a predator missile on his target, easy fucking peasy.

The SOFLAM took a second to warm up and then it was on target over Farrid's site, then all Cipher had to do was hit the button and wait for the bang. Target locked, he slipped the Bergen off his shoulders and replaced the SOFLAM. He was going to have to go in light on this one. Cipher pulled the M4 to his shoulder and checked the safety, and then he was good to go. It started as a hum at first, but then it grew like an angry hornet homing in on target. Then it hit, and the roar of the explosion shook the very stone beneath him. Nobody in that site was alive, now for the few stragglers.

It took less than a minute to get to the site, voices of the dying and of the frantic melded together in din over the rising roars of fire. Cipher slipped between each scream, finishing the job with calm professionalism. By now, any remaining snipers or stragglers where either dead or more wisely running for the hills. Job done, Cipher pulled out a bottle of water and a satellite phone from his Bergen and called it in.

"Hampshire this is Cipher, do you copy?" he said, his Belfast accent drawling, as he pulled the bottom of his mask up to take a sip. A voice responded, "Solid Copy Cipher, we have confirmation of impact on target; good job. Sending in Chinook 2-1 now, you're to redeploy immediately upon debriefing." Cipher took another sip then dared to ask. "What's happened now?" A moment of silence, then an explanation. The voice was different now, more authoritive and demanding - the original officer was probably not allowed to know.

"Cipher, intel are telling us we need to keep you on due to unusual levels of activity in your Tactical Area of Responsibility (TAOR). HORIZON has already called you out on this one, and UAV Hercules is being re-tasked for your further support. Regroup with Bravo, debrief, then good hunting." Then the radio was dead, no confirmation or repeat of instructions; Cipher didn't need them. In a moment Null would swoop in with the rest of Bravo, and then they'd make for the FOB and then on to the target. No rest for the wicked, or the awesome.

* * *

"That was the first time I heard it, but I knew what it was straight away." The veteran explained, holding his hands together on the table.

"And what was it?" Came the question, bringing a smile to the veteran's eyes. He looked up, and without irony or waver, he answered; "A fucking nightmare."


End file.
